The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  “Thanks so much for your cooperation …”

  “You know, we put a squad of twelve gendarmes on this case, and …”

  “Goodbye, Capitaine.”

  Vidal drove through the Aix countryside like a madman. Clutching the steering wheel, he snatched glimpses of the landscape. Young vine leaves, still damp with morning dew, gleamed in the sun, and the white cliff-faces of the Lubéron glittered in the brightness.

  Half an hour later, Vidal was walking into the administration department of the Université de Provence. A chubby secretary gave him a pinched smile.

  “Are you the policeman who phoned yesterday?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’ve already started looking for what you wanted. If you like, we can continue together.”

  The secretary explained at length how difficult it was to go back ten years into the past. The university kept very few records about the courses of particular students. But the degrees taken by Hélène Weill and Julia Chevallier had enabled her to uncover some valuable information.

  “We have a system of units of value, did you know that?”

  “Not really, I went to the police academy.”

  “It’s simple—to pass a degree you have to obtain a certain number of units of value, or UV. Some are compulsory, others are extra or optional. You can read English but also pass optional UVs in prehistory. Do you follow?”

  “Absolutely. I’m even getting a tan.”

  The secretary did not appreciate his little joke, but went on to explain that, after delving through the records, she had discovered that Julia Chevallier and Hélène Weill had taken several optional UVs in prehistory at the same time. Julia had read English and Hélène psychology.

  “What about Christine Autran?”

  “I haven’t had time to check yet but, given her age, she must have taken the same courses, except that her UVs were compulsory.”

  The day before, Vidal had discovered that Weill and Autran had both gone to Lycée Thiers, in the center of Marseille, while Julia had attended Marcel Pagnol. So these women had all known each other for years.

  “Can you give me a list of the other students who took these UVs?”

  “That will be difficult. I can only give you the names of people who passed their degrees that year. But many people fail, or else give up during the course of the year.”

  “That doesn’t matter!”

  “Do you want the optional and extra UVs too?”

  “I want them all, even the compulsory ones.”

  “It’s going to be hard, you do realize that!”

  “Listen, lady, I’m investigating a murder and I’m looking for a man who will probably kill again soon. So either you get to work, or I’ll ask the magistrate for the right piece of paper and we’ll confiscate all your UVs, the extra, the optional and the compulsory ones!”

  “But I’m the only person who deals with all this!”

  “I’m on my own too. I’ll be expecting your call.”

  The sun had just dropped behind the dome of La Major when Vidal burst into the office.

  “He isn’t working alone.”

  “Are you O.K., Michel?”

  “He’s not on his own in all this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The psychiatrist saw him with Autran.”

  “Who?”

  “Spectacles.” This was the nickname the Baron had given the mysterious man with thick lenses.

  “Do you want me to find out more about Christine’s private life? We’ve already seen her friends and professional acquaintances, and I hope we’ll get to her university friends soon, but we could extend the net.”

  “Don’t waste your time on that now. There aren’t enough of us. In my opinion, if we could find him by going through her acquaintances, he would have done things differently. We’ll have to do it some time, but not now.”

  “Maybe that’s why he killed Christine.”

  “You know, for the past few days, I’ve had the craziest thought.”

  “What is it? You never know …”

  “I think he has an accomplice, a female accomplice.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Only two people knew the victims and all the actors in this scenario. The first is Christine Autran, and she’s dead. The second is Sylvie Maurel. Christine and Sylvie went to university together. They worked together and couldn’t stand each other. They also studied the same subject: Le Guen’s Cave … Do you follow me?”

  “Yes, vaguely.”

  “Someone’s been leading us astray from the beginning.”

  “Go on, Baron.”

  “Someone’s been leading us astray, and I’m sure that this someone is a woman. Now, the only woman I know of in this case who’s still alive is Sylvie Maurel. She dropped into our little world, just like that! And I wonder if it’s a coincidence.”

  “Wait a moment, what about the Luccioni girl?”

  “Impossible. Bérengère’s a straightforward lass.”

  “Maybe she is, but we have to keep her in mind. I’ll look into it.”

  “Leaving no stone unturned?”

  “Exactly, Commandant.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I had a lovely time at the gendarmerie. All your ‘friend’ Captain Brauquier told me was that he’d seen some prehistory books in Weill’s shelves. Then I went to Aix. That was more interesting. It turns out the three women really were friends.”

  “What about yesterday? Any progress?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I got Autran’s address in Aix.”

  “And?”

  “Guess.”

  “Ten to one it was rue Boulegon, where she shared a flat with Hélène Weill.”

  “Spot on.”

  De Palma stood up and slapped his hands on the desk.

  “We’ll go and tell Paulin the good news! Great sleuthing, Maxime.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “Hang on, I’d better sit down.”

  “There were three sets of fingerprints at Autran’s place: Palestro’s, Christine’s—obviously—and, more surprisingly, traces of leather gloves. Just like those found in Chevallier’s house. And the moral of the story is?”

  “It’s the same person. I’m sure if the gendarmes had delved a little deeper, they’d have found the same ones at our friend the psychiatrist’s place. Very interesting. And then?”

  Vidal looked extremely pleased with himself.

  “The fingerprints on the photograph, the one you snaffled in Autran’s place, are identical in part—and I repeat only in part—to those found on the armrest in Saint-Julien, and an exact match with those in Christine’s car. But they’ve not been found anywhere else, in the flat on boulevard Chave, for example.”

  “You’re quite something! This proves that he was close to Christine. He was close to her, but we don’t know who he is, and he never went to her home … Even if he wasn’t a friend, he did travel in her car.”

  “Only the edges of the Saint-Julien prints can be used for comparison. The rest have been wiped off … Even if they mean something to us, they won’t stand up in court. I’ve been through all the police records. Not a trace. Then there’s Franck Luccioni.”

  “He was no intellectual. Far from it. He’s the one that bothers me most. With the women, some kind of rationale is emerging. We can now picture a sex maniac disguised as a shaman who slices up all the lesbians he met at university. It could be that simple. But then there’s Luccioni: with him we haven’t got a clue.”

  “No.”

  “And yet, Luccioni and Autran knew each other. Since primary school.”

  Anne Moracchini came into the office. She was wearing a miniskirt and de Palma could not help glancing at her legs with a loud sigh.

  “Anything wrong, Michel?”

  “No, I was admiring you …”

  “Listen, both of you, I think there’s somethin
g important in the postmortem report.”

  “What?” de Palma asked.

  “I don’t know, just something that puzzles me …”

  “Anne, you know I love suspense,” de Palma said edgily. “But this really isn’t the moment.”

  “I noticed that her clothes had been taken off, then put back on again later.”

  Vidal was about to say something, but de Palma cut him off.

  “Forensics told me about that. But I must admit I’d completely forgotten. So, what are your conclusions?”

  “I don’t know, but I feel that the corpse might still teach us something.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t teach us anything any more,” de Palma sighed.

  “I think she was undressed, then killed. Then her clothes were put back on and she was thrown into the sea. There’s no other possible explanation.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m certain.”

  De Palma leaped up.

  “Jesus, Anne, you’ve just put me on to something. I’m not sure what exactly, but this could be extremely important.”

  “Why?”

  “If you’re right about this, it means that she wasn’t killed in the creeks.”

  “Really?”

  “Definitely. There were tracks on the ground at Sugiton … Follow me? Two long tracks that led down to the sea, as though someone had been dragged along. But there were no marks suggesting that someone had been undressed. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I think so,” Vidal said.

  “It was all staged. He wanted to make us think that Autran was killed there, but she wasn’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Vidal asked.

  “Because if you strangle someone and undress them, you’re obviously going to disturb the pebbles. Then you cover the traces. That would be normal, yes?”

  “I suppose so,” Moracchini replied, only half convinced.

  “But he then left two huge tracks, which isn’t normal at all! He killed Autran somewhere else and then took her to Sugiton, because he knew that she often went there. Because he knew that the police would then put together a scenario which was completely different from the reality. This is our first victory, Anne.”

  De Palma sat down. He shoved aside the file in front of him and put his head in his hands.

  “Anne,” he said. “You’re going to have to go round everyone who hires out boats. Start at Les Goudes and go as far as Pointe-Rouge. Talk to all of them. They must have hired a boat somewhere in the area.”

  “You think so?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t afford to ignore a single thing. Then see if any boats were declared stolen, or anything like that. We shall see!”

  “Why do you think there were several people?”

  “Because you’d have to be extremely strong to carry a dead body that far. And by land I’d say it would be totally impossible.”

  “O.K., Michel, I’ll look into it. Do you need anything else?”

  “Yes, I do. Try to get a list of all the people who went missing at the time. From one month before to, say, a week afterward. Contact Interpol, Europol, the entire works.”

  “What are you thinking, Michel?” Moracchini asked.

  “I’m not sure yet … I don’t know … I just know that something doesn’t add up. That’s all.”

  “O.K., I’ll do it, but I don’t see why.”

  “Anne, nothing can be left to chance. We’re going to have to close all the doors, one by one.”

  “And why don’t you think there were two killers?” she said. “Why do you think the cases are connected?”

  “Because everyone knew each other … It’s obvious. On the other hand, you’re right, there might be two. Or perhaps just one, acting on orders. I’d tend toward the second hypothesis. But don’t ask me why. I haven’t got a clue!”

  “And we’ve got a gangland killing to deal with,” said Vidal.

  “Jesus, talking of gangland killings … Luccioni! You’ve just reminded me, we’re going to have to pay a visit to the Bar des Sportifs in Endoume.”

  “Lolo’s place? Shall we tell him the good news?”

  “What news?”

  “His pal, ‘Le Blond,’ is getting out soon.”

  “How did you know they knew each other?”

  “I’m not as green as you think. When I was a kid, I used to read about the adventures of Commandant de Palma.”

  “Ah, I see … How very impressive.”

  When Lolo saw the Baron’s tall figure walk through the door of the Bar des Sportifs, it was like an old nightmare revisiting him after twenty years: he had thought he would never survive the day he was grilled about Le Blond.

  “Hello, Lolo, how are things?”

  “Fine, Chief Superintendant.”

  “It’s Commandant these days, Lolo.”

  The landlord wiped down the zinc bar with a damp cloth and put away two coffee cups which had been left beside the sink.

  “What can I do for you, Commandant?”

  De Palma placed a photograph of Christine Autran on the bar.

  “Lolo, think long and hard before answering. Weigh up everything you’ll be risking, and everything you won’t. Well?”

  Lolo went over to the window and swiftly lowered the iron shutter.

  “Never seen her before,” he said, going back behind the bar.

  “Vidal, when is Le Blond getting out?”

  “Should be next week.”

  “Do you think he knows about our friend here?”

  “No, definitely not!”

  “You bastards.”

  The Baron wrapped his right hand around the nape of Lolo’s neck and, in a flash, smashed his head down on the bar. Once, twice. The third time, the hood’s nose cracked.

  “If you don’t talk, Lolo, I’ll break you in two, you hear me? I’ll break you in two! On my mother’s life. What’s more, I’ll tell our friend who’s about to come back among us after twenty years inside that you’re a supergrass. A supergrass to be mowed down.”

  “I’m fucking bleeding.”

  “Bleeding what?”

  De Palma smashed him down once again, then hit him with his left hand. On the second blow, his left eyebrow burst.

  “We’re short of staff on the force. So I have to speed things up a bit.”

  De Palma released the bloodied barman. His left eye was swollen and his lower lip split.

  “Lolo, I’m still waiting for your answer. While I’m waiting, I’ll pour myself a whisky. I’ll make myself at home. Do you want anything, Vidal?”

  The young officer did not reply.

  “Aren’t you thirsty?”

  “No, I’m not,” he replied dryly.

  “Put it on my slate, Lolo.”

  “It’s the truth, I swear to you.”

  “Don’t swear to me, you piece of shit. You’ve been swearing all your life, you should have had enough of swearing. What did you want from this woman?”

  “Me? … Nothing! … I’ve never seen her before, understand?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I dunno! I mean … nothing, that’s all.”

  “No, it isn’t all, Lolo.”

  “I swear it.”

  De Palma slammed the flat of his hand so hard on the bar that it made Vidal jump.

  “Don’t swear anything to me!” he yelled.

  “Alright. I … I … I’ve never seen her … I sw … It’s the truth!”

  De Palma stood in front of the photo of the Endoume football club. In the second row, he spotted Gérard Mourain.

  “Lolo, for some time now they’ve been giving you jobs tailing people, you and your little acquaintances. Oh yes! We know a thing or two. We’ve been watching your team, like your old pal Mourain, for example.”

  “Who, Tête?”

  “Yes, dickhead. We thought he must be reading gas meters. But sometimes chance is on our side. An officer in the serious crime squad tipped me off: ‘Mourain has been hangi
ng around boulevard Chave. We’ve seen him there a dozen times … With Petits Bras too.’ Do you follow me, Lolo?”

  “Ah … no.”

  “Shall we start over?”

  “No, no.”

  “So listen to me then. I want to know why you were having this respectable history lecturer followed. Were you in love with her, or what? Unless you’d rather I ask Tête in person.”

  The Baron knocked back his whisky, went behind the bar and poured himself a second shot. Vidal glared at him.

  “It wasn’t me, boss.”

  “Maybe not,” said Vidal. “But I don’t see what’s stopping us hauling you in.”

  “It wasn’t me. Can you imagine me murdering someone like that?”

  “Hang on a second, Lolo, we’ve got a motive and proof that you had her tailed … It doesn’t look good. People have gone down for less than that. And given your previous, the magistrate will put you in the cooler for a while, enough time for you to think things through and for us to take stock. Then, if it wasn’t you, we’ll say sorry. By which time you’ll have spent months in the can. But it’s nice up there. And there’s a lovely view, isn’t there?”

  Lolo stared at the counter top, his eyes wide open. He appeared to be floating in his own stream of his consciousness.

  “I can’t go back inside. Never.”

  “Well, in that case you’ll have to change your lifestyle a bit.” Lolo slammed his fist on the zinc.

  “I can’t … Give me a break. The first time, I was sixteen. I spent half my youth behind bars. I couldn’t take any more …”

  “You said it wasn’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So who was it then?”

  The mobster clenched his fists. He felt trapped.

  “All we’re asking is why you were having her tailed. We didn’t come here to be told it wasn’t you,” said Vidal, drawing closer. “I reckon you’re not looking like so innocent any more.”

  Lolo stepped back, beyond the officer’s reach. He stared straight into his eyes.

  “If I’m supposed to be guilty, then prove it.”

  Vidal had just lost that round; he had cornered this mobster, who had then hit back at him using his long experience of police questioning. They could not prove a thing.

  “O.K., you little fucker,” de Palma said. “Everyone knows you’re in the mob: you’ve got your moles, the whores at the Opera, a bit of powder, and a few artworks. We know all about your lousy little business. Who do you guys think you are? Better than the rest of us? You’re just shits. Pathetic little shits. You can hardly read or write, your mother was a streetwalker on the Curiol and your father a small-time pimp. You’re an asshole, Lolo. And I reckon you’re an asshole that’s been damaged with it. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your sphincter had been stretched wide open.”